


When You Eliminate The Impossible

by 10moonymhrivertam



Category: Mamishka's "Fallen" series, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Magic, Angels, BAMF!John, Changelings, Christianity, Fae & Fairies, Fallen Angels, Mythology - Freeform, Other, Story: The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans, Wingfic, angel!John, fic of a fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-05-25 22:05:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6211954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/10moonymhrivertam/pseuds/10moonymhrivertam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft's Guardian Angel has time for some introspection in the hospital after John and Sherlock have finished their case with the Black Lotus and decides it is vital he open an investigation of his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Fallen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/226432) by [mamishka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mamishka/pseuds/mamishka). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be warned that this begins at the end of "Invisible Bonds", with a lot of dialogue directly lifted from mamishka's story, and therefore contains MAJOR SPOILERS FOR THE "FALLEN" SERIES
> 
> Also, I recommend reading Fallen before this, as I haven't been very good about exposition about in-universe terms like "Sensitive" and "Adept".

Many Guardian Angels took to people-watching when their charges weren’t doing something that required their close attention. For some angels, this meant they did nothing _but_ people-watch. For Matthew, it was a rare pastime. He was fascinated by the sheer variety of people and of souls that were passing him by in the hospital today. He didn’t get to spend much time at places with so many people, even when his charge was in the hospital. Whenever his charge got injured seriously enough to need a hospital, it was a private hospital of the highest reputation, and they never ended up running into other patients. Matthew never got to people watch then, despite the fact that nurses and doctors were in and out. He always had to spend time doing damage control on Mycroft Holmes’ psyche, whispering suggestions into the government man’s ear that would help him keep his professional and personal life on track even from a hospital bed.

The only reason Matthew had the freedom to people-watch today was because Mycroft was visiting rather than being admitted. Mycroft had made his way to the hospital after his brother, Sherlock, had called in to 999 for an ambulance. Matthew did not blame him in the slightest for his concern - how Sherlock was still alive after losing his Guardian Angel was almost beyond Matthew’s comprehension. After all, he had overdosed once and nearly relapsed dozens of times even under John’s guidance. And now.....well....

The door opened before them and broke Matthew’s introspection. Sherlock nearly walked into them. There was a soft, broad grin on his face, but it fell instantly when he spotted Mycroft. His face twisted into a sneer instead.

“What are you doing here?” Matthew tried not to look at the empty air around Sherlock. It was so _rare_ to see anyone entirely unprotected from the evils of the world. It made Matthew’s skin crawl.

“What? I can’t show some brotherly concern when a 999 call comes in from you indicating the need for both police and ambulances?”

“Since I made the call, clearly I was not one of the individuals in need of assistance.” Historically untrue, Matthew noted. Sherlock probably was only able to justify the lie to himself considering that in the past, whenever he had called for an ambulance and the paramedics had tried to help _Sherlock_ rather than the victim of the week, Sherlock had always fought them tooth and nail. He’d simply been lucky to not actually be the injured party this time.

“That isn’t necessarily the case. At any rate, forgive me for actually caring about you. I know you’re above all that. Caring and emotions and all that nonsense.”

Sherlock sniffed and looked down the hall toward the silver-haired Detective Inspector, who was waiting to take Sherlock’s statement about the incident that had landed anyone in the hospital in the first place. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mycroft. You don’t give a damn about any of those things either.”

“Hmmmm, yes, well, one can always hope for better. So, Dr. Watson is alright then?” Ah, yes. Dr. John H Watson - the Guardian-less Sensitive who must have been the only thing standing between Sherlock Holmes and the Silver City (or, if one were being pessimistic, simply Hell.) It was curious, Matthew thought, that Sherlock should lose one John only to find another who would protect him. And considering all that had happened with Jefferson Hope, the homicidal cabbie, Matthew was a little reminded of the angelic John. After all, Sherlock had been chasing a demon the day he lost John, his angel. The demon had shot Sherlock - should have killed him. Matthew knew why Sherlock hadn’t died that day. John had done the incomprehensible. He had _interfered_. The demon had been left as simply a smoking hole in the ground - John had smote him. Sherlock had lost three pints of blood, but hadn’t a single mark on him - John had healed him. And then Michael had smote John. All his hard work, all his devotion, simply - gone. But such was the way of things. And by some luck or skill or miracle, Sherlock was still alive, and still giving his brother a very, very hard time.

“A bit battered and concussed, but otherwise he is well, yes.”

“And his sister?”

“Blessedly quiet for once. I’m sure she will revert back to her usual harpy self once the sedative has worn off. Alas. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a statement to give.”

“Mmmmm, yes. I spoke with Detective Inspector Lestrade briefly. It seems that your entire flat is a crime scene at the moment. You are, of course, more than welcome to come and stay with me.” Matthew shook his head a little at his charge’s determination, and was more than prepared to hear what Sherlock said next.

“I’d rather sleep in the gutter.”

Matthew’s charge laughed and shook his head. “So contrary. What did I ever do to deserve such enmity, Sherlock?”

Sherlock sniffed. “You were born?”

“Ah yes. Really, you should be grateful that I am the first-born. So many responsibilities and expectations. If it weren’t for me, you would have been forced to take them on instead of being allowed to run about playing detective rather than doing any sort of _real_ wok. Really, in many ways I am your savior, Sherlock.”

“Well, since you are such a generous person, then perhaps you can save me from the tedium of this conversation as well...” Sherlock then turned to flounce away.

“So, what is zhen ren?” Matthew’s charge asked, and Mycroft’s brother froze and turned back around. Matthew listened intently. He was curious to know the context. Sherlock didn’t believe in souls or the religion he’d been brought up in, so why had he been muttering about holy spirits?

“Where did you hear that?”

“From you, of course. You were muttering it under your breather earlier.” Mycroft lifted a single brow. “So...?”

“It’s nothing,” Sherlock waved a dismissive hand, “just something the ghost called John.” Matthew’s head cocked to the side a little. What was a ghost from a culture that respected the power of names doing calling a human _that_? Watson was a powerful Sensitive, yes, could see things hidden to the average eye as well as Mycroft could. However, it was surely going a bit overboard to call him more than human? More than human, less than a god. Matthew was very suddenly struck by the idea that it’s how a human (or someone who was originally a human, anyway) might describe an angel.

John Watson, described as an angel....John Watson, who reminded Matthew of the angel John. John Watson, who had no Guardian Angel of his own, despite his clear belief in the Father. John Watson, who shot Jefferson Hope as John had smote a demon. John Watson, who was not scared by Mycroft, nor Sherlock’s strength as an Adept and the magic around Baker Street that was the logical companion to that strength, nor being used as part of a deal with a Pooka, even when such deals ended with an ASBO. It suggested a familiarity with these sorts of antics that Sherlock’s former Guardian angel would certainly possess, or at least be prepared for.

But it couldn’t be that Watson was really John, for his soul - even so strange as it was, small and almost confused, but growing in size and confidence and complexity each time Matthew saw him - existed. No angel had a soul. Angels did not have an afterlife to require one. They had one life - one dutiful life, their loyalty falling either to Heaven’s army or to their human charge. On top of all that (and the most minor, but, Matthew thought, the most telling) Watson was known to take the Lord’s name in vain in times of stress, especially recently.

As Matthew masticated on the thought, he became aware that Sherlock had gone. It was just Mycroft and Anthea. Mycroft was needling the Fae for the non-literal translation. Suddenly Matthew’s train of thought and what he was observing collided in the most spectacular way. He was staring at a grown changeling. A _grown_. _Changeling_. To most Fae, the idea would’ve been impossible until Anthea happened. A changeling could not live past infancy. It could _only_ die. Never before had anyone interfered, let alone a human. Granted, in the process, she had become something the slightest bit - strange. Her DNA was not just Fae, now, or at least not just an elfen changeling’s. Could an angel be made into something....other? Given a soul and a physical body, could an angel live on?

It was impossible! It should’ve been impossible, at least. But Anthea should have been impossible and became merely improbable instead. So how, in the name of all the Father’s creations, had John found a soul and body? How had he taken them? Had John crossed a horizon that no angel should have been capable of? Had John _killed_ a human being?

Matthew shoved the raging questions to the back of his mind, snapping back into focus. He shouldn’t assume. Assuming made problems. But he should not shove this aside, either. If John had lived on and - please, God, forbid it - killed a human, Michael had to be told. But first, Matthew had to collect himself. He had to go about this calmly - methodically. He had to go about this like a Holmes. At least he, unlike Mycroft, knew what to look for. Matthew leaned in to speak in Mycroft’s ear.

“Look at this, Mycroft. John’s supposed to be the responsible one. Look at the kind of trouble he can get into. You’ve been relying a tad too much on him to keep Sherlock safe, don’t you think? And you’ve let the security at the Baker Street flat slide. This might never have happened if you hadn’t given in to him on reducing the surveillance. You have to make sure the flat’s covered. Then he’ll be safe.”

Matthew stood back then, giving Mycroft his space. Mycroft turned a little and tapped his umbrella against the ground. Then he turned fully and began heading down the corridor in the other direction from his brother. “Come, Anthea,” he called over his shoulder. “I do believe we need to arrange a small ‘test’ for our Doctor Watson...” After a few steps he paused and spoke more quietly. “Oh, and - we must get to Baker Street before my brother thinks to stop off. I’ve gotten complacent.”


	2. Chapter 2

Matthew had assumed his usual perch in Mycroft’s office. His wings flared behind him as he balanced on the back of one of Mycroft’s armchairs. Mycroft himself had assumed his usual position at his desk. The Sensitive took a single beat to close his eyes and rub his temples and even let out a deep sigh that was as good as a groan from another person. Though he held up to the pressure of this job admirably, it exhausted him. He rarely ever let it show, even alone - if anyone was aware of the possibility that you were always being spied on, it was Mycroft.

“I know, Mycroft. I know,” murmured Matthew. “But you can go home and collapse after just one more thing.” Matthew stood and walked toward the desk. “Just the surveillance. You just have to make sure Sherlock’s safe. Then you’ll be able to relax.”

At Matthew’s words, Mycroft squared his shoulders and sat up straight. The clicks of the mouse and the clacking of the keyboard seemed loud in the empty room. Mycroft pulled up the various feeds now set up at Baker Street, running checks on each. The bedrooms and bathrooms had audio-only surveillance, although each bedroom window and door had a video feed. In the kitchen, sitting room, and stairwell were video feeds. They seemed to be working, because Watson and Sherlock were showing in the front hall, each looking quite weary. Sherlock was scratching at his arm as they made their way up to the flat. Sherlock’s eyes were drooping and his feet were dragging a little. Fighting sleep, Matthew realized. That must have been the only reason Watson had come home instead of spending the night at the hospital with his sister.

Matthew’s eyes flitted to the next couple cameras as the boys climbed the stairs and emerged into the sitting room. They were quiet. It was tense rather than comfortable, and Matthew scrutinized the pair intensely.

“Stop scratching,” Watson implored.

Sherlock snarled a little. “You’re the one who insisted I take care of this _now_.”

“That doesn’t give you permission to scratch. Leave it alone.”

“Yes, mother,” Sherlock muttered, rolling his eyes. 

Watson let out a very long, very weary sigh. “The less you scratch, the faster the bandage comes off. Do you want tea?”

“God, yes. Even just the smell of the tea at the hospital was atrocious.”

“Alright, then.” Watson moved into the kitchen. Matthew and Mycroft watched with similar expressions as Watson rifled through boxes of tea bags. He was obviously planning something, because their favorite blends lived near the front of the cupboard. His plan became evident as he finally settled on a mostly-empty box of chamomile tea. He set the water to boil and made some toast while he waited. The end result was two cups of chamomile and some toast with honey.

“Here you go.” Watson presented Sherlock with the toast and the tea. Sherlock looked at it and then looked up at Watson.

“You’re trying to manipulate me,” he accused.

“Into what?” Watson groaned.

“Sleeping. You made this for me after we fought - to calm me down. Now you’re trying to make me sleep.” Sherlock paused to sniff at the tea. “Chamomile?” He balked. “I don’t _like_ chamomile!”

“Christ, Sherlock!” Watson shouted. Sherlock jumped. So did Mycroft, a little, at the sudden volume. Matthew marked the exclamation down in his mental tally for not-John. “Fine. Fine! Sleep or not. I don’t care.” Watson slammed the toast and tea onto the coffee table. “I’m going to bed.”

Sherlock didn’t speak, just watching Watson retreat up the stairs. After he disappeared from view, Sherlock’s eyes turned to the food. Slowly, he reached out, picked up the toast, and began to eat.

Mycroft and Matthew turned their attention to the audio surveillance of the upstairs bedroom. They listened as the door was opened harshly and slammed shut again. Watson crossed the room to the bed and seemed to collapse onto it. There was silence for a few moments and then a soft, slow rustling. It seemed to be coming from Watson’s clothes first, and then his duvet. Then, a moment of silence.

“Wingless?” A tiny voice broke the silence, trying ever so hard to be gentle. Matthew’s attention focused in sharply at the nickname. “...Yer not okay, are yeh?”

The bed creaked - Watson was probably lying down. There was a short pause as Watson tried to figure out what to say. “Because I snapped at Sherlock? In fairness, he was being stubborn.”

“‘E’s always stubborn. Don’t avoid the question. Wingless - _John_ \- are yeh okay?” Silence followed his question. The small voice spoke again more sadly. “I’m sorry. I’d ‘ave told yeh sooner, but I thought - I dinnae know.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Tuppence.” Watson was quick to soothe the owner of the small voice. “You’ve told me, and now I know.” The sentence hung there, filling the room with a foreboding air. “....Do you need anything for supper?”

“Not tonight.” The bedclothes rustled until there was a little thump of tiny feet on wood floor. A silent pause. “Will yeh _try_ and get some rest, Wingless?”

“Good night, Tup.” Watson’s voice held a note of finality that the small creature speaking to John was smart enough not to ignore. The creature - probably a brownie, Matthew decided, considering the mentions of supper and how small it sounded - scurried off to hide for the night. More silence, and just as Mycroft was sliding the mouse back to the living room feed to check on Sherlock once more, the bedclothes rustled again.

“Stop,” Matthew commanded softly. He hoped Mycroft would obey. The government man was very open to him, usually, but had moments of stubbornness to rival his brother. Thankfully, Mycroft seemed to rethink leaving the feed from Watson’s bedroom and kept listening.

Something scraped against something else - ceramic against the wood of a nightstand, perhaps? Another beat or two of silence, but Matthew and Mycroft were both listening intensely.

“I’m _sorry_.” The harsh whisper seemed to startle Mycroft. “I didn’t know. I didn’t think -” Watson’s voice broke. He fell silent. After a few moments, Watson was whispering again. “You were dead. It should’ve moved on. It’s not yours....is it? Please - _please_ \- don’t let it be yours.”

And then Watson began to cry. Out of courtesy, Mycroft closed the window. Mycroft rolled back from his desk a little and steepled his fingers before his face, his eyes going half-lidded and gaze distant. Matthew was lost in thought, as well. Whoever or whatever Watson had been speaking to sounded to be the one John had gotten the body and soul from - _if_ Watson was John at all. After all, Watson had only referred to ‘it’. Matthew needed to have absolute proof - a confession, if possible - before he did something about this. It seemed that Mycroft would not be the only one testing Watson in the days to come.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my God. Remind me never to promise you guys anything on a schedule again ever. I'm really sorry. Real Life and a lack of net connection is wrecking me. I had this all written up, but I had no net to post it, and I don't have any other chapters ready. There may be another long hiatus. I'm so sorry.

The most interesting thing about Mycroft, Matthew mused, was how _easily_ he could turn a could-be disaster into the next step in his plan. It had, admittedly, been a slip on their part. They should have kept a _much_ closer eye on the drive, copy or not. But now there was a grand opportunity - Mycroft and Matthew could begin their investigations into John Watson.

So Matthew sat in the middle of the room as Mycroft and his brother engaged in a match of wills, casting his eyes over everything in the flat, feeling out the magic here. His eyes flickered upward at the sound of footsteps. Mycroft and Sherlock ignored it, of course, but Matthew’s eyes tracked Watson’s probable position right up until the moment he entered the sitting room, bundled up in his pajamas with a towel thrown over his shoulder.

Watson seemed a little more alert for a moment when he noticed the surprise guests. Matthew found himself staring, his attention entirely on the being that had just entered the room. Matthew watched Watson’s eyes flicker between the brothers, and - was Matthew seeing things, or did Watson’s eyes stutter a little over the very spot where Matthew sat? 

Before Matthew could figure out whether he was looking too hard for something that was not there, the Holmes brothers turned their gaze, as one, onto Watson. Tension slipped into Watson’s frame and his gaze was fixed on the Holmes brothers now. The elder Holmes spoke first.

“Perhaps you could talk some sense into my brother, John.”

“What?” Watson spluttered, looking a bit dazed at being brought into the formerly silent conversation.

Matthew’s charge sighed deeply. “He can be so very unreasonable at times. It's not like I'm asking him to work for me, I've long given up on that pursuit...this would simply be a one time favour and of great national importance. And, more importantly to you, I'm sure, it would not be the least bit boring.”

Sherlock argued, as per usual, and Matthew began to tune them out, but only a moment later they were speaking to John again and so he had to return his full attention to the conversation. Mycroft accused Watson of having nightmares about Harry’s trouble while they were kidnapped by the Black Lotus; Sherlock accused Watson of having nightmares about the war. Regardless, Watson grew tense, even as he confirmed Sherlock was right.

Mycroft rose from his seat to offer Sherlock the file folder he had brought, but Matthew already knew that wasn’t going to happen, not without John to sit there in his ear wheedling him into accepting it. Matthew was already watching Watson even before Mycroft turned to him. Watson accepted the file as Mycroft abruptly began to explain.

“Andy Cadogan West, known as “Westie” by his friends was found beside the train tracks at Battersea with his head smashed in.”

“So... he jumped in front of the train?”

“That would be the logical assumption....”

“But....?” Watson prompted, looking much too tired to deal with any ambiguity in Mycroft’s statements.

“But?” Mycroft was fascinated by Watson and the ghost’s declaration that he was zhen ren, so of course he would try to lead John into it. Mycroft seemed to be hoping Watson was hiding some cleverness somewhere. Mycroft might be onto something, of course - there was every possibility that Watson was, at least, a stronger Sensitive than he pretended to be.

Watson huffed. “Well, if that were it, you wouldn't be here, would you? So clearly it's something more. Something quite a bit more if it has you off your schedule and here at Sherlock's flat. Especially since you know he would refuse to take a case from you if you offered in a completely locked room and covered in blood.”

Sherlock snorted, pleased, and Mycroft forged on.

“The MOD is working on a new defence system. The Bruce Partington Program – and some very delicate information thereof was on a Prometheus drive.”

“A what?” Matthew added another tally for not-John. Watson looked honestly confused, and good actor that he may be, Matthew expected he would’ve seen at least a spark of recognition. Matthew recalled the things being rather an obsession for the young Consulting Detective, so how could John have missed him working with them?

“Really, Mycroft, giving away government secrets to anyone and everyone?” Sherlock interrupted.

“Dr. Watson is not 'everyone', and since he'll be working on this case with you, no doubt...”

“No.”

“...it doesn't seem imprudent to explain the matter to him.”

Sherlock reiterated his displeasure in response, and before Mycroft could go on, Watson had his input. “What precisely is a Prometheus drive?”

It was Sherlock who answered him. “Ohhhh, just a little something Mycroft _stole_...”

“Bor-rowed,” Mycroft chimed in, a little bit sing-songy.

“... from me. A device I invented as a child when I was experimenting with mixing magic and technology. You are familiar with the story of Prometheus, I'm sure?”

John nodded and folded his arms over his chest. “Of course, what schoolboy doesn't? Prometheus, one of the few Titans to side with Zeus against Cronus and the other Titans. According to Greek mythology he was the creator of mankind. In an effort to save his creations, he stole fire from Mount Olympus and gifted it to mankind.”

Matthew redrew his mental tally chart for “evidence of John”, “evidence of not-John”, and “ambiguous statements”. He added a tally in the latter category. As a former angel, John would have an innate grasp on such things, but Watson could simply be a dedicated schoolboy. Matthew’s interest lay in the fact that Watson recalled that Prometheus was a Titan. Mycroft highlighted this anomaly aloud.

“What can I say,” Watson responded with a feral grin, “I was always interested in comparative religions.” Matthew considered moving the tally under the ambiguous column to the yes-John column, but an eerie grin was not a good enough reason. He would simply have to have patience. 

“Fine. So the Prometheus drive is what then exactly?”

“It's a drive, like a thumb drive, though it doesn't look like one at all. It's for holding data, specifically secret data. But it's encoded and protected by magic as well the usual mundane human forms of encryption and password protection.” Sherlock shrugged and explained a little further, “It was how I dealt with remembering things before I finished building my Mind Palace. I wanted a way to be able to copy and store important information, but not have Mycroft be able to have access to it.”

“I see. So there's this Prometheus drive with some terribly secret information on it that has been, what, lost?”

“Stolen.”

Watson raised an eyebrow. “That's not terribly secure.”

Sherlock snorted and Mycroft glared at him. Then he turned back to answer John. “It is simply a copy, but as I said, it contains very... valuable information for certain parties.”

“So secret then? Top secret.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at John and smiled thinly. “Very.”

Mycroft turned his attention back to Sherlock. “The belief is that Westie stole the Prometheus drive and we need to make sure that it gets recovered before it falls into... the wrong hands.”

More of the violin plucking that had been underpinning this entire conversation every time Mycroft spoke - evidently Sherlock was trying to tune Mycroft out. Mycroft gave his brother a dark look and rumbled, “Don't make me order you, Sherlock...”

Sherlock gave Mycroft a very catlike side-eye. The look that _knew_ whatever threat you’d just issued was entirely empty. “I'd like to see you try. “

“Yes, well, think it over.” Mycroft turned away from his brother and looked to Watson. He held out his hand and Watson took it automatically. An expression crossed Watson’s face that indicated he realized he’d just made a mistake but he tried to hide it again quick as he could. The handshake lingered long enough that Sherlock raised a brow before Mycroft said with confidence, “See you very soon.” 

Matthew took that as his cue to stand, but he did not follow Mycroft out the door. He watched as Watson went and sat heavily in his chair. As he looked up at Sherlock, his eyes skimmed over Matthew. “Is it -?” He began, but suddenly stuttered and his eyes flickered lightning-fast from Sherlock to Matthew and back, and yes! Watson _could_ see him. Matthew drew close to Watson, staring at him.

“I can’t answer a question you don’t finish, John. I don’t _actually_ read minds.” Sherlock added a bit of rosin to his bow. Watson fixed his gaze firmly on Sherlock, intent on ignoring Matthew and pretending he hadn’t glanced at Matthew.

“Is the sibling rivalry worth it?”

“Worth what?” Sherlock still did not look up from the task of caring for his bow.

“The - The risk,” Watson tried to explain, waving his hands about. “Everything Mycroft said. The plans, national security. It sounds a bit - y’know, dire. Is the sibling rivalry worth not recovering them?”

Sherlock finally glanced up with narrowed eyes. “If you think it's so important why don't you take it then?”

“What?”

Sherlock rose and settled the violin against his shoulder. “Come now, John. You know my methods, you've seen how I work. I think it's time to push you out of the nest, let you test your wings.” Sherlock set his chin to the violin and began to play, but Matthew wasn’t watching that. He was watching the way Watson stiffened and his face contorted at Sherlock’s statement.

“ _John_ ,” Matthew breathed, convinced. John Watson swivelled to look at him. John Watson had been very good so far at not looking at angels, but apparently none of them had ever called his name before. John Watson and Matthew locked eyes. They stared, neither saying a word, until -

“John,” Sherlock started. Watson whipped round to look at him, and suddenly Matthew realized the music had trailed off a few moments ago. “What’s here?” His voice was low and wary, and he was searching the middle of the sitting room with eyes that would never be able to see Matthew.

Watson paused for a moment or two before turning slowly back to Sherlock. “He won’t hurt us.” Watson sounded dazed and he shook his head before turning back to Sherlock. “Mycroft said it was a matter of national security. _He_ seemed to think it was important.”

“Never mind that. What is....he?” Sherlock waved his hand ambiguously at where Matthew was standing. “Why can’t I see him? I could see Siwang - well, when he was angry...”

“Calm down, even your brother couldn’t see him.”

That stopped Sherlock in his tracks. “What?”

“Mycroft can’t see him. He was here while Mycroft was here, and Mycroft couldn’t see him.”

“ _You_ can see someone Mycroft can’t?” Sherlock scoffed.

Matthew cocked his head. He hadn’t expected Sherlock to be skeptical. He’d expected delight - shouldn’t the younger Holmes be overjoyed at having a flatmate more powerful than Mycroft? Shouldn’t Watson look relieved, rather than wary? Emotions were such tricky things. He watched them, unsure what would happen next.

“Yes. I can.” Watson’s voice was flat and his face was shuttered.

“How do you know Mycroft can’t see whoever this is?”

Watson snorted. “Right, because Mycroft would pass up on the chance to brag that he can see angels.”

“Angels.” Sherlock’s voice was flat, his own face going hard and obfuscating. Watson cursed and looked to the floor, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What is your proof?”

A slight hesitation on Watson’s part. A twitch of his shoulder blades. “I suppose I don’t have any,” he said between gritted teeth. “They have wings and they whisper things to the humans they’re with.”

“That’s all?” Sherlock scoffed. Watson just fixed his hard eyes on the ground. “Does every human have one?”

Watson glanced up at Sherlock. “The ones who believe in God do.”

Sherlock stared at John and eventually made a little sound of concession. “I suppose it makes sense you wouldn’t tell me if I don’t have one.”

Matthew fixed his eyes sharply on Watson. He watched as Watson’s jaw moved - biting his tongue? Watson then did a little simultaneous nod and shrug. He turned on his heel while opening the file that Mycroft had left, and strode immediately for the door. 

Despite Matthew’s sudden certainty, there was still an unacceptable degree of ambiguity. What he’d witnessed _could_ speak of a careful ex-angel, but such a thing had, up until now, never existed. It was still _far_ more likely that John Watson was a powerful Sensitive. Matthew could not yet take this investigation to Michael. He needed to hear from Watson’s lips that John was in there. Once he had the confession, he could tell Michael all that he knew and let Michael do anything else that had to be done. 

Matthew lingered another moment, unsure. Sherlock stared around as though straining to see him. Finally Matthew let out a tiny sigh and took off to rejoin Mycroft, committing strategies for the investigation to the back of his mind and wondering if Mycroft would be safe enough from the darkness in the world for a while so that Matthew could act on his plans sometime soon.


End file.
